It was smooth sailing to the Isle of the Dead. I did not really care for their music but this was not the main thing about it. Mostly, it was very quiet, the water like glass, the cedars had grown quite large. They said there was no room for my bones, not even a small corner. It was so small. I saw some monks’ cells carved into the cliff. Well, if there grew corn here and finagled irrigation ditches then there were possibilities not apparent at first glance. I grew hopeful. That happens a lot at the end. Exhausting anticipation, regrets about grammar, and all the rest.

Thanks for this. Reminds me of Koch's "Sleeping with Women"... technically, of course. Good to hear of Amy Gerstler again. Where has she been all this while: sleeping under Santa Monica pier? Strong poem!